


White Noise

by thejokeristhethief



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Imprisonment, Kissing, Multi, Rescue Missions, Snow, Spoilers For TBE
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-17
Updated: 2016-12-17
Packaged: 2018-09-09 03:28:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8873998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thejokeristhethief/pseuds/thejokeristhethief
Summary: The first time Wash sees snow, his life is burning to Ashes behind him. The second time Wash sees snow, his hope begins to fade. The third time Wash sees snow, there is a misunderstanding. And the most memorable time Wash sees snow, he maybe doesn't hate it as much as he did before.
A series of important moments in Wash's life that happen in the snow.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Saereneth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saereneth/gifts).



> Thank you for the prompt, my friend. I'm sorry for taking it in this direction.
> 
> This is loosely tied in with Team Building Exercises. It obviously happens after where we are currently with that fic. SO future spoilers for TBE people! Be aware.

The first time Wash sees snow it is a disaster. The MoI, or what is left of it that is, is in flames behind him. His feet are bare, the thin hospital gown does little to protect him from the snow, and oh hey, his ass is hanging out. Just fucking perfect. The only thing worse than freezing to death in his current state of undress is the fact that he is utterly alone, shunted out of the shambled remains of the medbay by a medic that clearly has other things on his mind and told not to move. Frankly, it’s a little insulting. He’s a highly trained Agent of Project Freelancer, on the leaderboard and everything, thank you very much. Just because he’s not in armour doesn’t mean he can’t take care of himself. So the Epsilon thing threw him off a little. Doesn’t mean he’s going to shatter.

However, that doesn’t mean he wouldn’t appreciate some company. Preferably from one his lovers. Wash knows they wouldn’t abandon him for long. So he stands there, watching the remnants of his life, his career, his _**home** _ burn as he waits for the only things, the only people, he has left that matter to claim him. Standing in the blowing snow of sidewinder, Wash waits for his family to return.

He’s still waiting hours later when the medic returns to treat his toes for frostbite. It doesn’t occur to him until after the same medic has shot him up with a sedative and strapped him to a bed for transport that nobody is coming for him.

So yeah. The first time Wash sees snow is the day Wash loses everything he’s learned to love. And he decides that he hates it.

* * *

The second time Wash sees snow is 1,009 days, 11 hours, 32 minutes, and a handful of seconds after the first time. This time he doesn’t have to stand out in it for hours, although he desperately wishes he could. The sensation of flakes melting on his skin is a novel sensation to revel in. His sterile, empty, _white_ existence does not offer much in the form of variance. So if he takes a quiet, stolen moment to embrace as he’s transferred between the facility he’s refused to call home for almost three years, and the Pelican intended to take him to a more advanced medical facility. He knows, logically, that any sign of disobedience will mean more sedatives, and he hates them. But this rare opportunity to experience an outside environment is worth it.

Wash may not be an Agent of Project Freelancer anymore, but when you have all the time in the world to do nothing but physical conditioning, well… you tend to stay in shape. Not that he really needs to be in shape to take out these assholes. They’ve forgotten who he is and what he’s done. And that the air outside of his _cell_ does not have their clever mix of tranquilizers and anti-psychotics meant to control him. In other words, Wash’s head is clear for the first time in ages.

Twisting out of his escort’s firm grip, he drops his shoulder, slamming his elbow into the solar plexus of the man on his left. He’s back up and spinning away before the other guard even realizes what’s happening. A quick spin kick sends the upright man flying, even if Wash does end up falling on his ass in the process. He doesn’t waste any time mourning his declining ability in hand to hand combat, quickly scrambling to his feet and making a desperate bid for freedom in the form of a sprint towards the treeline several hundred meters away.

He doesn’t make it. A tranquilizer dart hits him in the left ass cheek with 100 meters left to go. The second one pegs him in the other cheek with a mere 90 meters to freedom. The third, completely unnecessary, and frankly insulting dart, catches him in the little cluster of freckles North used to worship just below his shoulder, and he topples face first into the snow.

This time it’s only his consciousness he loses. His freedom, his family, his purpose, and his sense of self have already been stolen from him. The only things that remain are his slowly dwindling hope, and his sheer stubbornness. As it turns out, he still hates snow.

* * *

The third time Wash sees snow he’s just regaining consciousness from whatever concoction was in those darts. His hands are uncuffed and he can hear a hushed and slightly worried conversation happening behind him. He considers fleeing out the open rear hatch of the Pelican and out into the pristine whiteness the snow offers. But somewhere along the way he’s lost his shoes, and he isn’t about to risk dying of exposure until he’s gained his bearings a little. Shutting his eyes, he focuses on the discussion happening in the cockpit of the ship.

“-hot him in the ass! Was that really necessary? I mean, come on. Three darts?” The voice is familiar, although a little more strained than he’s used to hearing it. And considering the usual situations he’s found himself in with her, that’s saying something. “You know he’s going to kill you if he wakes up, right? I mean, the shoulder was the only necessary shot. And how are you going to explain it to your boy if the rookie dies? I sure as shit am not taking the blame for this one. And Jesus Christ, you love the fucking idiot. Why the fuck did you shoot him so many times?”

“Now calm down, Niner.” Wash has spent years warring with his mind, torn between hoping to hear the smooth timbre of that voice again and praying that he never does. Because hearing it again means he was truly left behind. Abandoned to whatever fate the Director decided. What is worse in this situation, however, is that North is still working for the asshole that has had him imprisoned for the better part of the last three years. He feels his heart shatter. Blocking out the rest of the conversation is hard, but he mostly succeeds in doing so as he tests his limbs, only catching a useful part before slamming down the walls around his ears. “The tranqs should wear off quickly. They’re fast acting, quick to go in, quick to burn off. Hence the reason why I could use three. Besides three meant that those guards wouldn’t attempt to-”

He’s heard all he needs to know that moving now is not only something he is capable of, but also something that isn’t inherently stupid. His reaction time is still slightly below his average, but his limbs are all working. Which means it’s time to go. Rolling off the bed silently, he stealthily sneaks down the ramp, freedom within grasp. He’s steps away from exiting the ship when his escape is blocked by a familiar suit of orchid colored armour. “Hey there, blondie. Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”

His first instinct will always be to fight. So, despite his low level of control over his limbs, Wash throws a punch, swinging his fist into her unprotected face. Of course the thing about South, the thing Wash admires most about her in fact, is that she’s fucking tough. She’s always been able to take a punch. So even when Wash’s unexpected hit lands, she just rolls with it, and moments later he finds himself pinned against the internal hull of the Pelican troop bay. “What the fuck, Washington! Seriously, what’s your goddamn issue?”

When he struggles to free himself from her grip she jerks his arm up his back higher, and with a sickening pop he feels his shoulder dislocate. South curses, releasing his arm immediately and seconds later, North is there. The older man pushes his twin away, and suddenly Wash finds himself cradled against his former lover’s chest.

“What the hell just happened?” He can feel the vibration of North’s deep voice from where his face rests against the other man’s chest. The position is familiar and he finds himself relaxing, despite the circumstances that put him in this situation. The more he relaxes, the more he can feel the pain. He lets out an involuntary whimper as the other blonde tightens his hold, clutching Wash like a lifeline. “Dammit, South. Who knows what those assholes did to him at that place. Not to mention the fact that he can’t fully be out of those sedatives just yet. We’re here to save him, not hurt him. Pinning him against the wall like was just overkill.”

“Right, because shooting him with three tranquilizers was a necessary part of our rescue.” South snorts. “No, that couldn’t be considered overkill at all. And for fuck’s sake, North. Your boyfriend hit me in the goddamn face. It was either pin him against the wall, let him hit me again, or step aside and let him flee. News flash, brother of mine, I don’t think lover-boy really knows what is going on.”

She’s right. In all honesty, Wash has no fucking clue what is happening right now. But his shoulder aches like a motherfucker, the other man is a warm and solid presence, and overall he feels safer than he has in years. He whimpers again when North puts space between them, gently pulling away to get a better look at him. A hand cups his face, tilting his head up so their eyes meet. “Hello, love. You have no idea how much I’ve missed you. I would have come for you sooner, but it took a while to locate you. Now, why don’t you tell me what hurts and we can get you fixed up.”

He searches North’s eyes for an ounce of untruth and comes up empty. His heart leaps at this conclusion and before he even realizes what he’s doing, he’s throwing himself back into his lover’s embrace, kissing him hard, despite the twinge of pain it causes. North laughs into the kiss, bright and happy, obviously amused at the enthusiasm in which he has decided to greet him with. Clutching Wash back to him, North continues to ravish his mouth until he hisses in pain. Concern coats his gaze when they separate again.

“As happy as I would be to continue reacquainting myself with you, I believe you are hurt.” North places another chaste kiss to his lips before stepping back completely, voice going from indulgent and doting to commanding. “Tell me where you’re hurting, Wash.”

He’s rarely been able to resist that tone before. Especially not when he’s hurting. So, despite the voice nagging him, telling him that North could still be working for Project Freelancer, he gives in. “I think my shoulder is dislocated.”

The next few minutes are a blur of orders and pain as North snaps his arm back into its socket. Once it’s done and his lover rearranges his arm carefully across his chest in a sling, Wash accepts the morphine shot North offers him. South returns a moment later, although, if he’s one hundred percent honest he never really noticed she was gone. That should bother him, but when she presses a clean T-shirt wrapped around a chunk of snow, effectively numbing his shoulder, he decides he doesn’t care.

He also decides that maybe snow isn’t entirely bad.

* * *

The most memorable time Wash sees snow, however, is years later. He’s lost count of the number of times he’s seen it by now. They’ve long since reconnected with York and hunted down the surviving Freelancers in an attempt to piece together their lost and scattered family. However, not many of them were willing to listen, and after the last attempt, South split off, intent on finding her own path. The twins emergency channel has been silent for months now.  It’s an adjustment they’ve all come to terms with, something they’ve helped North accept. Things are a little less strained with South around. Not one hundred percent yet, but getting there.

Which is why, when they wake up to a foot of snow with more coming down, Wash suppresses the urge groan. Snow has never been his favourite but York, ever the eternal fucking child, goes apeshit over it. But their relationship has been rocky recently, none of them quite over the betrayals they’ve suffered recently. So if York wants to play in the snow, they’ll damn well play in the bloody snow. Even if it is cold and wet and awful.

Wash wraps the scarf tighter around his neck as he steps out of the front door of their rundown apartment building, fingers curling up in his mitts against the cold. Behind him, North pulls the door shut firmly. York practically dives off of the short flight of cement steps, flailing in joy and beelining it for the empty field across the street. The brunette slips, falling on his ass the moment his feet hit the icy layer of compact snow flattened down to a mirror shine by local vehicles. Sitting in the middle of the road, York looks up at them pathetically, lip working a serious pout as North struggles not to laugh. After a moment of letting the idiot stew in his own embarrassment, Wash carefully picks his way across the road, reaching his lover quickly and helping him to his feet. “This is why we don’t run across icy streets in the middle of winter. Remember what you told me?”

“Yeah, yeah. Bambi on ice.” York sighs, planting a quick kiss on his cheek. “Nobody wants to be Bambi. Don’t be Bambi. Don’t run on ice. Thanks babe.”

Wash grins up at him, wrapping an arm securely around his waist. A moment later, North joins them, wrapping his own around around York as well. “Sorry for laughing. But it was a little bit funny. You had all the grace of a yearling horse.”  
“Careful North. Right now, if one of us goes down, we all go down.” York grins wickedly, hip checking him gently. “Your fate is tied to mine. Don’t make me take us all out.”

“Oh York….” North sighs, soft smile gracing his face. “Haven’t you realized by now that our fates have always been tied together. What good are three separate strands of yarn? Together we’re stronger, better, and potentially ah um…”

“Lost that metaphor, hey? I mean I guess we could be a hat? Or a scarf.” Wash chimes in with a grin. “Yeah, I kind of like the idea of us being a scarf. You can share one, after all.”

York chuckles. “Yeah, OK. So our fates are knitted so tightly together that we’re a scarf. Bravo. Now let’s play in the snow!”

Watching York take off the field, bounding through the white, fluffy, snow, Wash decides that maybe, just maybe, he likes snow after all.

And then York puts a handful down his back.


End file.
